


Ten Sickles

by ShayaLonnie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 06:32:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8390905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShayaLonnie/pseuds/ShayaLonnie
Summary: On a trip to Bulgaria for Quidditch training, Ginny Weasley calls in an old debt.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [provocative_envy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/provocative_envy/gifts).



_Ten Sickles._

Ten Sickles he owed her.

Owed her because when she was thirteen and went to the World Quidditch Cup she'd handed her twin brothers ten Sickles—all she had—and placed everything on Ireland, Seeker and Snitch too, and they'd won the Cup but lost the Snitch and George jingled the small bag of coins in her face and said, "Sorry little sister, better luck next time," with a smug grin on his face that made her think about placing Bulbadox powder in his pillow.

_Ten Sickles._

It wasn't much these days, not when the Harpies were paying an amount of money her mother insisted was "obscene" and Firebolt had just signed the contract that morning for her as their official spokesperson. She'd Floo'd her brothers with the exciting news and then, when Ron decided to inform her that Harry'd gotten engaged and had she heard the news and "you'd never guess it, Gin, Daphne Greengrass, remember her? She was that pretty one that all the blokes used to look at and she's going to marry our Harry. Blimey, could've been you," in a way that he likely thought wasn't a dick move, but it really, really was and she couldn't stop herself from grinning when she watched Hermione smack him over the head with something that sounded hard—and she hoped it was hard—before her bookworm best friend congratulated her and then ended the call by saying she was off for a business meeting, which meant "secret date with Malfoy" as if people still didn't know where she went and what she did every Friday night.

She wasn't thinking of Hermione now. Or about her big-mouthed brother who had his heart in the right place but there was a massive disconnection between that and his brain. She wasn't even thinking about Harry and the new pretty—blond—future Mrs. Potter.

She was thinking about calloused hands from ten plus years of Quidditch. Thick thighs that came from gripping a broom, hundreds of feet in the air. A scruffy face rubbing between her breasts and she hoped it would leave a burn because then she'd have some sort of proof. Compensation had been paid.

He owed her ten Sickles and she was taking it out of his arse.

Or his cock more like.

His fingers were biting into her thighs as he thrust and pressed and held her tight between his body and the cold steel of the locker behind her. As delicious as the moment was—and he tasted like cloves and smoke and something that reminded her of a drink she'd blacked out from imbibing in last year when her team had smashed the Canons so badly that Ron didn't speak to her for three weeks. Delicious. He was delicious. Delicious and warm and . . . no . . . hot. Burning up. He was burning her up from the inside out and muttering the filthiest suggestions that made her grin and giggle and laugh at the fact that he'd seemed such a proper gentlemen back at Hogwarts. Back when he'd come to visit. Come to compete and take her friend to the dance where he'd spun her around and lifted her in his arms like she was as light as a feather.

Hermione was delicate.

Ginny was just . . . just not.

She was a rough and tumble and stick a firework in your locker if you crossed her on a bad day or sent a Bludger in her general direction with a smirk on your face as though you thought she couldn't dodge it. She was hot tempered and uncontrollable . . . unless you had a fist full of her hair and you were driving into her with . . . "Oh, fuck . . ." she moaned as his grip tightened. She thought about calling out his name but it sounded so very cliche. That and she'd always called him Krum because Hermione called him Viktor and she wasn't Hermione and didn't want him to think she was anything like her friend. A girl he drunkenly admitted had been his first love.

It was fine.

She didn't love him either.

He was a great way to relieve stress.

And he owed her ten Sickles.

"Krum . . ." she finally moaned and then winced, glad that his eyes were distracted by the way she arched against him because she knew it sounded stupid.

"Ginevra," he almost whispered but she purred because he rolled his r's somewhere in the back of his throat or maybe on the tip of his tongue and she was delighted to know that he understood the concept of vibrations.

She squeezed her legs and sunk her fingernails in his bulky shoulders and wondered if Ron still wanted his autograph if he knew what the man was doing to his baby sister right then, hilt deep up against the cold steel lockers. Cold because it was winter in Bulgaria and the team had been sent there to learn how to handle rough weather conditions so they'd never be the team who'd forfeited due to anything, least of all a little bit of snow.

He hissed at the pain and pulled her hair harder, grunting like an animal and she laughed when he came because he punched his fist into the locker right behind her, as though he was trying to divert some of the energy he was expending. Like somehow his climax would injure her in the process if he let it all out in one go. When he stared at her, unsure of why she was laughing, she'd kissed him and bit his lip and cupped his face, throwing her weight against him.

His knees trembled and buckled in the aftermath and they'd both fallen to the floor in the process. She'd brought Viktor Krum— _the_ Viktor Krum—to his knees.

That was _at least_ worth ten Sickles.

"I am thinking, I vould like to be taking you to dinner," he mumbled, smiling a confident smile and she thought about asking if he knew who she was apart from her fame as a Quidditch player. She wondered if he knew her past and knew that she'd been called the love of Harry Potter's life by the Daily Prophet and other rags that didn't know their heads from their arses or even bothered to ask when, if, or how the couple eventually broke up—amicably.

"Dinner?" she asked, smirking at him, and licking her lips, tasting cloves and smoke and . . . "I think I need a drink," she said and stood up, adjusting what seemed to be left of her uniform. "You're buying."

"Of course," he said quickly and then stood up, straightening himself out and offering her his arm like she was some debutante in a ball gown instead of the girl he'd just fucked so hard against a locker that his fist imprint and her sweat still lingered behind. "It vould only be proper," he added.

She rolled her eyes. "Proper has nothing to do with it. You owe me."


End file.
